...before I buy another book

01/01/2015

I read 64 novels from 30 countries in 2014, with the most being by Belgian authors (13 - including a Maigret a month), followed by UK (10). This compares to 60 novels from 15 countries in 2013 and 69 novels from 36 countries in 2012.

Eleven novels earned the full five stars, one more than in 2013 and 2012. I gave four stars to 29 books, so I rated two-thirds of my reads as above average!

Based on the the criteria of good writing, strong characterisation, memorable insights and straightforward enjoyment, my Top Five Reads of 2014 were, in alphabetical order of author:

The Luminaries, by Eleanor Catton

The Discovery of Slowness, by Sten Nadolny, trans. Ralph Freedman

The Sound of Things Falling, by Juan Gabriel Vazquez

Augustus, by John Williams

The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruis Zafon

Four of these were definites, and I opted for Zafon over Karl Ove Knausgaard's A Man in Love or David Grossman's hugely moving To the End of the Land mostly because it was fun and I read it in the city in which it is set, Barcelona.

The best book by a UK writer was The Farm, by Tom Rob Smith.

My best crime or thriller read was Bloodland, by Alan Glynn

A tough call, but I think Slowness was the best novel I read in 2014, though Luminaries ran it close, and neither could quite match the beautiful prose of Patrick McGuiness's Other People's Countries: A Journey into Memory.

12/07/2014

The epic story of a great man, told through letters, diary extracts notes. From a few pages in it becomes both a gripping novel and a convincing historical document. Interesting to read alongside Robert Hughes' flawed but inspiring Rome... and four days in the Eternal City.

My Brilliant Friend, by Ferrante 8/10

A talented girl grows up just outside post-War Naples, awed by her odd friend, Lila. Will continue with this trilogy.

The Great Agony and Pure Laughter of the Gods, by Jamila Safari 9/10

I had put this off for a while as I was somehow never quite ready for the harrowing story of a child soldier in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The events described are horrible, but told in a way that is readable. The story is rather mechanistic, and the characetrisation a little too easy, but there is an impressive optimism here, mixed with a much broader view of Congo than comes through in news reports,

Rome, by Robert Hughes, 8/10

Have always enjoyed Hughes art criticism, but was discouraged by a savage review by Mary Beard. Flawed maybe, but it made our trip more fun.

11/10/2014

09/14/2014

Needed the summer break to find time for an 832-page read, but Eleanor Catton's The Luminaries was worth it. Also finished my Barcelona read, Carlos Ruiz Zafon's The Shadow of the Wind, which is close to the book I would have written if only I had the talent.

‘Paris requires more than two days,’ said Julián. ‘It won’t listen to reason.’ Shadow

Both rate 9/10.

Miss Montreal, by Howard Shrier, showed a different, but plausible, side to the city I visited in July. First two-thirds were great, but the final straight took too many themes too far. 7/10

06/30/2014

Back to Gotland for Ander Knutas' seventh outing. Disappointing; too much plot, too little about the core characters. 6/10

The Sabre Squadron, by Simon Raven

Enjoyed returning to the Alms for Oblivion series. 8/10

Roseanna,by Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo

A trip to Motala was a good reason to reread the first Martin Beck 7/10

The Post Office Girl, by Stefan Zwieg

Engrossing, though slowed down by some rather staged dialogue. 8/10

The Discovery of Slowness, by Sten Nadolny

Brilliant account the life of Arctic explorer James Franklin, distinguished in this fictional telling by a shrewd, inciteful and humane view of life gained by observing and deciding at a different pace than most of us. Best novel I have read this year. 9/10

Hitler wakes up... in modern Germany. Brave effort, nice one-liners, but the conceit hasn't the legs to compete against the monster.

I scrutinised once more my modest, nay pathetic writing desk and the cheap, whitish wall behind it. It would not look any better no matter what one hung up there, even a bronze imperial eagle.

And I never denied that, when it is cold, the Teuton does nothing. Apart from light a fire, perhaps. Just look at the Norwegian or the Swede. It came as no surprise to learn of the success the Swede has recently enjoyed with his furniture. In that rotten state of his the Swede is permanently on the lookout for firewood, so it is no wonder that from time to time this might result in the odd table or chair. Or a so-called social system, which delivers heat free of charge into the apartment blocks of millions of parasites. This can only lead to spinelessness and greater sloth

Shocking, but inspiring account of life in Gaza. Hard to understand the Israeli position... Up to you, David Grossman.

They had driven down a backstreet into a complex, functional part of town strung with wires and pipes; it was like finding oneself behind the back of an extremely large computer screen.

Agatha Raisin and the Dembley Walkers, by MC Beaton 5/10 (PR in Fiction)

Agatha signed the credit card slip. ‘You’ll get the tape when I read it,’ she said. She got to her feet. ‘Goodnight, Mr Andrews.’ Ross Andrews swore under his breath. Public relations! He hoped never to meet anyone like Agatha Raisin again. He felt quite tearful. Oh, for the days when women were women!

05/15/2014

Almost by accident I read three books by Belgians in April, and one has every chance of being my book of the year. One was by a Walloon (well, a Walloon with a touch of Tyneside and Eire), one was Flemish, and one was half Walloon, half Flemish and synonymous with Paris.

The Misunfortunates, by Dimitri Verhulst, paints an affectionate picture of a disreputable family in Flanders. 8/10

My father was a socialist and went to great lengths to be recognized as such. For him, possessions were nothing more or less than extra dusting. You didn’t own them, they owned you. If a burst of unexpected thrift put us in danger of reaching the end of the month with a financial surplus, he hurriedly plundered the bank account and drank his entire pay packet to protect us from the temptations of capitalism.

My father always spoke of the inconveniences of our residence with pride – longing for an easy life was a clear sign of inadequate masculinity – and when we finally moved to Mere Street it was only to be even worse off.

He tells of a childhood surrounded by drunkards and layabouts, where violence was never far away, writing with a keen sense of the tensions inherent in romanticising lives few would choose.

You saw them giving us dubious looks when we made our traditional drunken return from a game of fives, or racing inside with fright when we kicked our cheating wives in the crotch or hurled items of furniture out to smash on the cobbles. But if someone had made a TV series about us they would have watched it with amusement.

I also read, Other People's Countries, by Patrick McGuiness, which I thought was really splendid - full review to follow 9/10

Night at the Crossroads, by Georges Simenon, trans Linda AsherNumber Six in the series 6/10

Tenth of December, by George Saunders Came with a big reputation - clever, echoes of Vonnegut, but didn't quite work for me 6/10

The Sound of Things Falling, by Juan Gabriel Vásquez Gripping 9/10

Ostland, by David Thomas Another novel I probably expected too much from... 7/10

The Lieutenant, by Kate Grenville Enjoyed The Secret River, and had waited too long to read this 8/10

The Way by Swann's, by Marcel Proust, trans Lydia Davies A masterpiece, made better by a pitch perfect translation 9.5/10

The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning, by Hallgrimur Halgason Clever, witty and engaging 7/10

“The Doctor is looking after his dying caterpillars,” she explained. Fabrizio’s hobby was to order insects, although he knew they couldn’t survive the Colony’s atmosphere beyond the few hours which they would spend on his walls, but they gave him the illusion of a natural environment. He also ordered plants that arrived in special jars but withered within twenty-four hours, although he strove to keep them alive to create the impression that he was tending a garden. This was his way of protecting himself from the danger of madness or of suicide, which was an epidemic in the southern quarters.

...

Fantasy that becomes reality loses its potency and cannot perform its function. Much worse, it betrays you as it shows how wrong you can be even in your most intimate imagination.